


fire kissed us and laughed

by Stairre



Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Apparently nemeses really is the plural of nemesis, Both of which are in the past, Cultural Differences, Dom/sub Undertones, Don't copy to another site, Implied/Referenced Slavery, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Rape Allegory, The Matrix of Leadership - Freeform, The inherent eroticism of being arch-nemeses, There's something wrong with the Matrix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25936711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stairre/pseuds/Stairre
Summary: Hot Rod's no longer Rodimus Prime, and he cannot be anything but thankful for it. But in the aftermath, no one seems to understand justwhyHot Rod feels small and scared and hollowed out andcornered, in desperate need of an escape route. They won'tlisten.Well, all except one.---In which Hot Rod's holding out for a hero, Decepticons are all apparently secret romantics (if in a very Decepticon-y way), There's Something Wrong With The Matrix, and the author tries to keep this fic's worldbuilding strictly G1 cartoon continuity but you're just going to have to imagine that Optimus Prime and Galvatron somehow didn't interact in any way during the Hate Plague to make the premise work.
Relationships: Galvatron/Hot Rod, Galvatron/Rodimus Prime
Comments: 45
Kudos: 126





	fire kissed us and laughed

**fire kissed us and laughed**

–

It’s not an easy adjustment, becoming Hot Rod again.

He doesn’t regret it, not one bit. Handing the – the – the _thing_ that had held him back to Optimus – and it had _wanted to go,_ which – _good –_ because he had _wanted it gone_ – is the best thing he’s ever done. He doesn’t regret _that._ He only wishes that it hadn’t left him so hollow inside, his internals scooped out clean, seared shut with a heat that he has been taught is _divine_ but he can’t really bear to think of as _benevolent_.

Optimus takes back the Matrix of Leadership, and his optics are hollow, empty, and how can no one _see that?_ How can no one see that millions of years of being its bearer has made Optimus nothing more than a scorched shell for _that thing_ to wear?

Perhaps that’s cruel, unfair. Hot Rod had certainly never seen, in that time before. And no one had seen _him_ underneath the blazing light of Rodimus Prime; the smaller, true, original self cast entirely into shadow, trailing behind the fire-brand the Matrix makes of those whom it chooses as _Prime_.

He can only be thankful that it had not held him long enough to burn him to ashes completely. Hot Rod can only mourn whatever mech Orion Pax was, even if in an abstract _I-never-actually-knew-him_ way, because whoever – whatever – Optimus Prime is, he’s not Orion Pax.

No one understands. Not Arcee, not Springer, not Ultra Magnus, not any of the other Autobots around. Maybe Orion Pax would, but he’s long gone. The Matrix of Leadership is a holy object, deeply entrenched in their culture, and Hot Rod can’t say anything _directly_ bad about it, but if he sidles up to the topic of _I’m glad to be Hot Rod again_ then nothing but confusion meets him. To be a Prime is the greatest upgrade, the most awe-inspiring bestowal, how can Hot Rod be happy about relinquishing his enhanced frame and title?

_Easily,_ Hot Rod thinks, but does not say. _I begged for it. Cried out to you guys but it wouldn’t let me speak. I screamed at it to let me go. It never listened and you never heard._

So he stays quiet, after the first few aborted attempts. Quieter than before, and it was barely over a single human year ago that he was _taken_ and _changed,_ but it feels like an eternity. Some ‘bots express concern that he is not as outgoing as before, as happy, but Hot Rod doesn’t know how to tell them that being held prisoner in one’s own frame whilst your very identity is slowly scraped and burnt away is a pretty life-changing experience. He tries, for a time, to project that cheeky ‘bot he once was, but he can’t keep it up.

“I’m worried about you,” Arcee tells him one day. “C’mon, Roddy. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m fine,” Hot Rod lies, his voice low and dull. “Nothing’s wrong.” Arcee squints at him. Hot Rod huffs, and offers up, “It’s just – not been an easy adjustment.” There, a little closer to the truth.

The line of Arcee’s mouth softens. “Oh, Roddy,” she says. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see. You were a great Prime. I’d bet that one day in the future, when Optimus defeats Galvatron once and for all, when we have peace again, he’ll give the Matrix back. You’re a ready-made successor, Hot Rod. Your Primacy will return to you.”

_That’s not what I meant,_ Hot Rod thinks, even as he suppresses a shudder. The whole scenario Arcee just spun out is _terrifying._ “It’s not – never mind. Thanks, Arcee.”

Arcee places a hand on his shoulder, going for comforting, but all Hot Rod can feel now is the looming weight of expectation, the surety that the Matrix will claim him once again in the future. It doesn’t matter how far away it might be, Hot Rod _doesn’t want it._ “What are you researching?” she asks.

Hot Rod glances back down to the monitor he’s sat in front of, in a hidden corner of the archives in Autobot City. “The history of the Autobots,” he answers after a moment. “The old records, of the Quintessons and the rebellion, of how the Autobots and Decepticons worked together to cast off their chains.”

“And then turned on each other in the aftermath,” Arcee finishes. “Interesting, but why? Trannis leading the Decepticons in war against the Autobots ‘til Sentinel Prime defeated him hasn’t got much to do with us right now, millions of years later.”

“I was looking up the origins of the Matrix,” Hot Rod admits to her. “When and where and how it came about. Just – curious, I guess.”

“Oh,” Arcee says. Then, “So? What did you find?”

“A whole lot of nothing,” Hot Rod sighs, frustrated. “Prima was the first Prime, and he was one of the leaders of the rebellion. The records say he just disappeared one day and came back a couple of weeks later, with the Matrix and _changed._ It doesn’t record anything for its origins other than that.”

“Huh,” says Arcee. “Interesting.”

_Creepy,_ is what Hot Rod would term it. “And then the rebellion succeeded, the Quints were driven off, and the First Golden Age began on Cybertron,” he finishes, wanting Arcee to just _go,_ now, and hoping that wrapping up a summary of their history will get her to be finished with this conversation. “And several thousand years later, the cultural divides between the Autobots and Decepticons became so severe that war erupted. One war later, Sentinel Prime strikes down Trannis, establishes the Second Golden Age, and a few million years after that, Megatron arrives on the scene. We know the rest from there.”

“And that’s that,” Arcee says. “Now we’ve just got Galvatron to defeat and victory will go to us Autobots. After all, _we_ hold Cybertron, while they’re stuck on Chaar. Take heart, Hot Rod,” she smiles at him, “we’re nearly there. Optimus will come through for us.”

_Yeah,_ Hot Rod supposes. No need to mention to Arcee that the records don’t hold the reasons for the initial Autobot-Decepticon war past _they’re not like us, their ways incomprehensible, we’ve got to **sort that out**. _No, he can’t. That’s dangerous talk.

Hot Rod’s an Autobot because he was built an Autobot, the same as every other Autobot. And the Decepticons and the Autobots have proven time and time again for millions of years that there isn’t enough space in the universe for both of them.

“Yeah,” Hot Rod echoes to Arcee, “that’s that.”

–

Of course, there is the problem of Galvatron.

The Decepticon Emperor of Destruction – and, yeah, apparently that _is_ the official title of the leader of the Decepticons, according to historical records, much like how the Autobots are always led by their Prime – is still very much a threat, no matter what Arcee says about the Autobots being on the final lap now.

Okay, yeah, on _paper_ the Autobots have a distinct advantage. In _reality,_ Galvatron is as fearsome and dangerous an enemy as ever, when he chooses to clash with them. The Autobots have more enemies out amongst the stars than just the Decepticons – there are no shortage of species spying an opportunity in their weakened, reduced race now that the aftermath of Unicron has left them so vulnerable.

Once, it was Hot-Rod-but-not-Hot-Rod’s job to seal up those holes in their defences, hold the line, or charge forward guns blazing, whichever approach suited best. Now, it’s a thankless task happily passed back over to Optimus, whom Hot Rod secretly thinks doesn’t have the individuality any more to be overwhelmed by its enormity, but damn it, he’s not going to say _that_ out loud.

Either way, Hot Rod’s been knocked back down into being just another foot soldier, specialising in guerrilla tactics and sabotage, due to the fact that he was built on Cybertron during the time that the two sides’ elite forces were lost to the stars (and unknowingly in stasis-lock on Earth) and Shockwave ruled the planet with an iron fist, leaving the Autobots scrabbling around through the under-layers like rats in the sewers of Earth, fighting for every scrap of resources they could steal.

Hot Rod had never seen full-on pitched battle until Earth. That was not the style of war that had dominated for four million years (and the entirety of Hot Rod’s life pre-Earth) on Cybertron. Shockwave had had a strangle-hold on the planet, and the Autobots had been constantly on the run. Hot Rod’s whole life had been sneaking through the ruins of the past, hiding and scrapping and running away. There had been no glory to speak of.

So, anyway, that’s how it comes to be that Hot Rod is slipping through the low corridors carved straight into the mountain that is one of the main bases of the latest alien race to give _subjugating the Cybertronians_ a go. There’s a battle going on outside as a distraction while Hot Rod and a few others work their way in, seeking to disable the power source for the mobile force shields protecting their enemies. They’d split up once inside, trying to cover as much ground as possible due to the fact that the Autobots did not strictly know where the generator was bar _somewhere here._

And that is also how Hot Rod comes to be completely alone at the same time that Galvatron bursts in straight through a rock wall, his cannon hot and humming. Those burning red optics meet Hot Rod’s, who feels that familiar rush as all his combat systems come online at once, switching over from standby to active so fast it almost hurts his processor as the lines of code running in the background abruptly change. He has only an astro-second to spare a wondering thought as to why Galvatron – and, assumedly, several other Decepticons – are here, but there’s no more time to dedicate to the mystery than that.

“ _Prime!”_ Galvatron calls out upon seeing him. Then he pauses, taking a second look. Hot Rod lifts his arms and aims his forearm laser blasters directly at Galvatron’s centre mass, but even as he does it he knows it’s useless. His frame and weaponry no longer have the raw fire-power or strength to compromise Galvatron’s thick Unicron-made battle-grade armour, in addition to now being decidedly less capable of withstanding Galvatron’s own offensive abilities.

“Galvatron,” Hot Rod says, refusing to dwell too long on a strange part of him that relaxes, almost, the universe tilting back the right way up and something familiar slotting into place.

“… Hot Rod,” Galvatron says, not lowering his arm cannon but also not firing it. Hot Rod twitches a little in place. He had no idea that Galvatron even knew that name. “So this is where you’ve ended up, my nemesis. Just _what_ is that _thing_ out on the battlefield?”

The horrible part is that Hot Rod knows _exactly_ what Galvatron is talking about. “That’s Optimus,” he shoots back, privately in agreement but publicly unable to admit it. “You know? The one who saved all of our afts?”

“ _That_ is not a mech,” Galvatron snaps back. He launches himself forward, and Hot Rod is no longer hefty enough to just take the hit, and so ends up staggering backward, then lifted off his pedes and held in the air by Galvatron’s grip, his arms pinned to his sides and his forearm weaponry rendered even more useless by no longer so much as facing the right direction.

Galvatron shakes Hot Rod, which – weird? Galvatron could do a hell of a lot worse than _shake_ him, but he doesn’t take the wide open opportunity. “Tell me!” the Decepticon Emperor growls. “You’re _mine,_ and that _thing_ is in your place. Tell me what happened!”

“He’s got the Matrix!” Hot Rod spits out, and, yeah, he _could_ have remained silent, Galvatron is hardly torturing the answer out of him, but suddenly he _wants_ to speak out the truth, to shout it loud, to have it _heard_ by maybe the only mech Hot Rod can think of that will _listen,_ that might _understand._ “I gave it back to him! It wanted to go and I wanted it gone! Don’t – don’t – ” Hot Rod’s vents hitch, and then he pleads, frantically, a sudden fear that Galvatron might – might – might get it in his head to do something like _rip the Matrix out of Optimus and force it back into Hot Rod_. “Don’t make me take it back. _Please.”_

Galvatron stills, holding Hot Rod motionless in his uncompromising grip. He’s leaving dents, sure, but what’s a few dents, considering his sheer lethality? “The Matrix,” Galvatron repeats, red optics burning bright but distant as he picks apart Hot Rod’s words. “It – does _that?”_

“Don’t make me take it back,” Hot Rod begs again, quietly. “Don’t let them put it back. Please – Galvatron – I’d _rather die._ I’d rather die here at your hands than touch that thing again. Please – if you – if you ever had even the tiniest slip of respect for me as your – nemesis – you’d rip me apart, right here, right now.”

It should make him cringe in shame, to voice such terrible things to a mech who’s his _greatest enemy,_ but Hot Rod is so tired, so desperate for understanding, that he would turn to Galvatron, his self proclaimed _nemesis,_ the one who, despite spending most of his time waging war on all the Autobots but especially Hot Rod in particular, is now the only one Hot Rod can think of to spill his thoughts to.

Galvatron is the _antithesis_ to whatever it is that powers the Matrix of Leadership. And – and – and maybe Hot Rod is clinging to hope and throwing it down like a gauntlet here – but Unicron _enslaved_ Galvatron, and Galvatron broke free. He might be the only one who could truly understand what it’s like to be subsumed by a force that much greater than himself.

And maybe this is all a mistake, maybe that weird rivalry shading into understanding and respect that Galvatron and Hot-Rod-but-not-Hot-Rod had forged together is either a total misinterpretation of glee at an equal opponent with no softer undertones, or else will simply not apply to Hot-Rod-the-original. But, by the god Hot Rod no longer has any faith in the benevolence of, he strives to _hope._

“You win. Okay? _You win._ So end it,” Hot Rod whispers, staring directly into his arch-enemy’s optics, unable to wipe away the optical fluid gathering at his own, begging Galvatron for whatever mercy might exist in him. “End _me._ Please, Galvatron. Please.”

Galvatron’s mouth falls into a flat line. He pulls Hot Rod close, shifting to hold with only one arm, and Hot Rod does not fight it. His other hand lifts up, grasps Hot Rod by the side of his neck, pushing Hot Rod’s face in against his chest, fingers slipping into the lines and cables there. One tug, and he could disconnect Hot Rod’s processor from the rest of his frame. One slice, and a major energon line would have Hot Rod bleeding out in minutes. One squeeze, and he could break Hot Rod’s neck strut, leaving him paralysed and defenceless.

There’s the feeling of pressure, and Hot Rod’s world goes dark, all his sensory feeds cutting out, with nothing but a half-sob of relief trailing from his vocaliser.

–

Against all hope and expectation, Hot Rod wakes up.

His optics flicker on, his sluggish sensory feeds seeping back in. He’s on a large berth, made for mecha more closely sized to the likes of Sky Lynx or Ultra Magnus, in a large room, clearly a set of living quarters, considering the furniture and personal affects scattered about. There are no stasis-cuffs, no chains, and his internal weapons systems aren’t even disabled.

“Why?” he croaks out to Galvatron, sat in a chair pulled up next to what must be his own berth, his red optics pulling away from the data-pad he’s holding instantly, fixing their burning stare on Hot Rod.

“You’re mine,” Galvatron repeats, setting aside the data-pad and leaning forward to loom over Hot Rod, “not that – _thing’s._ It won’t ever touch you here. I’ll smash it against the ground, crack it open, incinerate the shards before it takes you from me.”

Hot Rod lays shuddering for a moment underneath that declaration, knowing it to be an absolute truth because Galvatron never makes any oath without fully intending to follow through. Still. “Thank you,” he says, a little broken, his voice wavering but earnest, “but _why?_ I’m yours to kill – you said it yourself. Why am I alive?”

Galvatron narrows his optics. “Do you truly wish to die?” he asks.

“No,” Hot Rod admits, “but death is preferable to being made a Prime again. And – you would have won, if you’d killed me. Why am I here instead?”

“You surrendered to me. Submitted. I won.” Galvatron looks down at him, and Hot Rod’s one of the best at reading his moods, save perhaps Cyclonus or Scourge, but he’s struggling now to interpret the weight of Galvatron’s gaze. “You placed your life in my hands, and this is what I’ve chosen to do with it. I told you that you were mine to _defeat,_ and death is only one way to win. I’ve found that I greatly enjoy cutting down my opponents, but for you? This victory is far sweeter.”

Hot Rod absorbs that, and – if he had to choose, between being possessed by Galvatron and being possessed by the Matrix, he’d choose Galvatron every time. He should be angry, he knows, he should be afraid. He should get up, right now, and attack Galvatron, even if defeat is almost certain, because freedom is something worth fighting for, and not even the flaming light of the Matrix had managed to quite burn that opinion out of him.

He doesn’t do any of those things. He slumps back down on the berth, trying hard not to feel relieved, not to feel comforted, not to feel a strange kind of warm affection and embarrassing desire at the thought of being some precious thing that Galvatron wants to have. Galvatron’s not said anything of the like, not now and not before, when they spent a year meeting in battle time and again, a twisted link of mutual respect stringing them together.

“Oh,” Hot Rod breathes out, and it _is_ a surrender, he recognises. A submission to Galvatron, and Galvatron’s will. Though it absolutely should, it doesn’t feel like defeat. Going free now means going back to his people’s expectations, to the looming threat of the Matrix and the Primacy moving slowly towards him, patient and victorious, completely unstoppable. Then, because he kind of has to know, “So, what, am I calling you _master,_ now?”

But Galvatron blanches, jerking back, and says forcefully, _“No!”_

“No?” Hot Rod says, confused. “But – ”

“But _nothing,”_ Galvatron growls. “Curse the Autobots and their strange views of power! You are now _mine,_ but you are not _my slave.”_ Galvatron sneers at the word as it comes out of his mouth.

“…I don’t understand,” Hot Rod says. How can someone claim possession of another and it not be a form of slavery?

Galvatron heaves out a furious sigh. “Tell me, Hot Rod,” he says, shrewdly, “do you consider the Autobots’ servitude to their _Prime_ to be slavery?”

“No!” Hot Rod says instantly, the very thought an ice-cold shock. “That’s not – no!”

“And why not?” Galvatron asks. “The Prime is chosen by – that _thing –_ which is an outside force. And every Autobot bows down and accepts their leadership, regardless of any experience or qualifications, their might or cleverness. Not just _anyone_ can become the Prime. They are the central force of the Autobots, from military general to religious leader to head of the entire Autobot race. From their choosing to their death, there is no other leader. To go against the Prime is treason. Perhaps there are no chains on your body, but chains upon the mind constrain as tightly.”

Hot Rod opens his mouth, closes it, and wants to say, _It isn’t like that,_ but he can’t. Nothing Galvatron says is untrue. “As opposed to what?” he finally asks.

“I suppose that Decepticon culture is mostly unknown to you,” Galvatron acknowledges, “even barbaric, perhaps. But for us, our leader remains so only on their own merits, their might and cunning and ability to defeat those who would challenge for their title. Should they work towards it – through training, upgrades, reformats, favours owed – _any_ Decepticon could become the Emperor. If a Decepticon disobeys, they need to be able to back it up with either might or justification, and punishment is still more than a possibility, but it is not _treason_ in the way the Autobots would understand.”

“But I’m not a Decepticon,” Hot Rod says, even as he cannot help but find Galvatron’s words interesting. The Autobot archives have barely anything on Decepticon culture that doesn’t quietly stink of assumptions and misconceptions, all shaded with tones of _they’re brutal and strange and_ _ **not like us**_.

“But you are _mine,”_ Galvatron reiterates. “When you were Prime,” - Hot Rod flinches - “did you not look upon your troops and think _these are mine to lead, mine to protect?_ Similarly, the Decepticons are _mine._ I am their leader and they submit to _me._ Mine to rule, mine to marshal. But they are not my slaves.”

Hot Rod shutters his optics. “What now?” he asks quietly. “I’m not your slave. I’m not a Decepticon, and no amount of reformatting will ever change that base coding. I’m – I can’t go back to the Autobots. So what now?”

Galvatron hums, and even his low rumbling vocaliser manages to sound more than a bit like his cannon charging up. Hot Rod doesn’t flinch this time. “Traditionally,” Galvatron says, and there’s a strange weight to his voice, “an enemy to the Decepticons is defeated in three ways: death, a mutual non-aggression pact, or becoming a Decepticon themselves. Through marriage.”

Hot Rod stills. He’s not dead, on Galvatron’s whim, which he has submitted himself fully to. He’s not a member of a group with a political agreement with Galvatron, no matter how much the idea of Galvatron doing politics makes him want to nervous-giggle. That leaves…

“Marriage,” he says to the ceiling.

“Yes,” Galvatron says, almost purrs, really, “you will be my consort.”

Hot Rod thinks of what it might say about him that he doesn’t immediately blanch at the thought of being married to Galvatron. “…What’re Decepticon marriages like?” he ends up asking. “I only know what’s expected for Autobot ones.”

A dozen, a hundred, a thousand pre-conceived, very Autobot notions, are turned on their head by Galvatron’s next words: “Loyalty. Respect. Decepticons marry the one whom they trust to have their back in battle, whom they trust with their softness. To marry an outsider is one of the few ways to bring one into the Decepticon fold, and is considered to be a great honour.” Galvatron fixes Hot Rod with a fierce look. “Decepticons don’t marry easily, and they don’t marry without _meaning it._ The vows given are the only ones to culturally supersede the vows of submission to the Emperor of Destruction. And I would make them with you.”

Part of Hot Rod wants to say, _Unicron made you. No matter your former self, do you really count yourself a Decepticon?_ _Enough to hold their marriage vows sacrosanct?_ But – that’s hardly his business, actually. That’s Galvatron’s decision to make, since he threw off Unicron’s shackles, since he apparently decided to embrace the culture of his predecessor. “Just like that?” he asks. “I’m – I was your enemy.”

Galvatron grins at him, and _oh,_ Hot Rod remembers suddenly that pointed canine denta are pretty normal for Decepticons, so hiding his own guilty attraction to the physical feature is going to very suddenly become a chore. “Defeating an enemy through marriage is held very highly amongst us,” he tells Hot Rod. “There are countless tales of Decepticon victories, and the most well-liked, well-regarded ones nearly always have the victory be through those vows. We _do_ place a value on a good rivalry that Autobots don’t. You’ve had me call for retreats many times – in itself that is proof of a worthy nemesis, a worthy consort.”

Hot Rod squints at him. “Is _nemesis_ basically a Decepticon code word for _I don’t know whether to kill_ _him_ _or clang him but I’d take either opportunity?”_

Galvatron throws his head back and laughs. “Perhaps erring somewhat more towards _clang him,_ but, yes. That’s not an inaccurate interpretation.”

“…You’ve been calling me your nemesis since right from the start,” Hot Rod says, but then he hesitates, adding on. “Or – Rodimus Prime. He was your nemesis. I’m not him. I can’t be him. I’m Hot Rod. And I’d rather die than become him again.”

Galvatron falls silent, looking at Hot Rod with sharp optics. “You _are_ my nemesis,” he says firmly. “It was _you,_ not _Rodimus,_ that challenged me inside Unicron. And perhaps Rodimus was the one who walked out, but he was not the one who forced me to pay attention to them. It – he was killing you. And I didn’t see.”

“No one saw,” Hot Rod says, reassuringly, because Galvatron looks furious with himself and Hot Rod’s willing to bet a lot of all the money he doesn’t have that anger is how Galvatron manifests any sort of fear, “not even those who’d known me for centuries. It’s not – what the Matrix did. It’s not your fault for not seeing.”

“It enslaved you,” Galvatron growls. “It was burning you away, like how it burnt your _Optimus_ away.”

“I was too weak to stop it,” Hot Rod whispers out, miserably. It’s not even a fearful regret that makes sense – no Prime has ever rejected the Matrix – been _able_ to reject the Matrix. But there’s been a loop running in the back of his processor for over a year now, wondering if there was anything he could have done, some fight he could have put up, that would have stopped the Matrix. Stopped it from sinking its light into him, scorching through him, hurting his mind and his thoughts and his very sense of self, _violating him in every way._

Galvatron reaches out a hand, grips Hot Rod’s shoulder, and shakes him. “No,” he says, uncompromisingly, and it’s a command that Hot Rod cannot do anything but obey, “you are not weak. Was it _my_ fault what chains Unicron laid on me?” he asks.

“No!” Hot Rod replies instantly, the concept of blaming Galvatron for that abhorrent.

“Then it was not your fault the Matrix – _took_ you.” Galvatron pushes at Hot Rod with his hand, urging him to sit up on the bed and face him directly. Hot Rod does sit up, though his shoulders are hardly held straight with any type of self-confidence. “It hurt you in ways only mirrored by _Unicron._ It’s not your fault. It never _was.”_

Hot Rod shutters his optics, and – it’s no use. His lips twist, his intake tightens, and he knows that optical fluid is glowing a soft translucent pink at the edges of the metal shutters, beading through, slipping down his faceplates. “They say I’ll be Prime again,” he says through his static-laced vocaliser. “Later. I couldn’t – I just – I flung myself at you because it was the better option. I can’t – I – I _can’t.”_

“Then _don’t,”_ Galvatron says, as though it’s that simple. And – maybe it _is._ After all, the consort of the Decepticon Emperor absolutely cannot get their hands on the holy Autobot Matrix of Leadership, right? “Stay here. Be mine.”

_Stay here._ Implying that, if he really, truly wanted to leave, Galvatron would let him go. Because – because he had to _choose_ to submit, it wasn’t being forced upon him.

“Yes,” Hot Rod says softly, about sobs. “Please. I’ll be yours.”

“ _I’ll_ be _yours,”_ Galvatron corrects, “and, someday, when you can bear its full weight, you’ll be mine, really and truly.”

It will clearly be a while before the true equal balance of emotion typical of Decepticon marriages will come to fruition. That’s fine. Galvatron’s already half-way to the honest victory he’s desired since a fiery Autobot challenged him in the dark recesses of his creator. He can wait for Hot Rod to catch up.

“Yeah,” Hot Rod says, swallowing, lifting his hands up to wipe away his tears. He hesitates a moment, and then slowly leans into Galvatron’s bulk, testing if that is welcome.

It is. Galvatron shifts forward, curls one of his huge – especially now, compared to Hot Rod’s reduced frame – arms around him, tucking him in against his chest. Hot Rod presses his face into Galvatron’s neck cables and raises a hand, curling it lightly and pressing it against the Decepticon symbol on Galvatron’s chest.

It’s a symbol that Hot Rod is likely to have to wear, now. Or at least get rid of his Autobot one. That’s something to ponder later, though, when Galvatron’s vast EM field is not drenching him with its self-assured confidence, its purr of prideful victory, its possessive protectiveness.

It’s not something that an Autobot should feel attracted to. But – Galvatron _respects_ him, it’s just pure _fact_ that Hot Rod has known even in those – he can’t call them _dark days,_ there was too much _light –_ in that time he was the Prime. And you can love someone but not respect them, respect their decisions and views and autonomy. And – Hot Rod _wants_ to be loved, he won’t deny that, but if he had to make a choice between respect without love or love without respect, he would have to choose the first.

There’s a chance, of course – a good one, in fact – that he won’t have to choose. Galvatron wouldn’t make such an offer if he weren’t ready to fight to the hilt to make it work out well. If he is being truthful – and Galvatron doesn’t waste time with lying games, Hot Rod knows – and the Decepticons place immense value on their rare marriages… Well. The Decepticons’ Emperor of Destruction wouldn’t choose a consort lightly.

“You really want _me?”_ Hot Rod mumbles into Galvatron’s neck. He’s still trying to wrap his head around it.

“Always have,” Galvatron rumbles, placing a palm over the side of Hot Rod’s head, tilting his head up out of his neck to face him, “and now I have you.” He doesn’t manage to fully remove the smug, if genuine, contentedness from his voice.

Galvatron grips Hot Rod’s chin and pulls his face in. Hot Rod knows what’s going to happen a second before it does, but even if he’d had the chance to pull away – which he doesn’t, because Galvatron’s still a _Decepticon,_ and for all of the many layers in their culture that Hot Rod is still barely scratching the surface of, _might makes right_ is practically law, and so is _if you want something then take it –_ he wouldn’t have.

Galvatron kisses him, and Hot Rod kisses back, and it feels like warmth and shelter, not stark, exposing light.

**Author's Note:**

> You know, whenever I write G1 Hot Rod | Rodimus Prime, I'm always torn between _no, he's a great Prime, he got robbed when they brought back Optimus and I'll show them all!_ and _he so clearly doesn't want this and giving up the Matrix **was** his happy ending_. ~~There are two wolves inside you.~~
> 
> GalvRod is a ship I really like. There is _so much_ to explore there, whether they're G1 or not (though, let's be fair, G1 is the main verse they actually interact in, though the same could be said of Skyfire/Starscream, and that fact certainly doesn't stop fanfic writers from writing them into other verses). This is my second fic for them and I have a couple of others in the works, including a series, but don't be expecting them any time soon, sadly. They'll come in their own time, and that's all I can promise.
> 
> Title is from the poem _I come from the fire city_ by Eve L. Ewing, which can be found [here](https://poets.org/poem/i-come-fire-city).
> 
> I can also be found on [tumblr](https://stairre.tumblr.com/). Come and say hello!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Take My Hand and Never Look Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27640415) by [starla3017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starla3017/pseuds/starla3017)




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